Unfinished with reading Ian Rankin's Black and Blue by my bed, I went outside and stared at the stretch of man-made light. The patio's a minor mess; pieces of dried fish, a laundry hanger, rods made of nylon lining the pillars of this structure I've spent at least a month in. There are no interests to travel; only books offer the cleanest form of passing days. Inside the books are left near the window and prone to tearing from the rain outside.
The neighbor's house is queer because its second story has a door to a place that passes for a terrace but minus the floor and the railings that make it real.